


just the usual

by quirkysubject



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hair Dressers, Backstory, Banter, Clients to Friends, Comfort No Hurt, Developing Friendships, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Hair Washing, Haircuts, Light Angst, Tumblr Prompt, curly hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27472861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject
Summary: Brian detests those stubborn, useless, ugly curls that insist on growing out of his head
Relationships: Brian May & Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor
Comments: 42
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MsJackofAllFandoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsJackofAllFandoms/gifts).



> This fic is due entirely to a wonderful prompt posted by [guiltypleasurefandomface on tumblr](https://guiltypleasurefandomface.tumblr.com/post/634313425017831424/a-little-idea), who had this great idea for a hairdresser AU (head over there to read the full prompt):
> 
> _"Freddie likes fussing over Brian and hearing updates on his dissertation._
> 
> _Roger likes having a laugh with Brian and is very opinionated on how Brian does not look after his hair, but they talk music and about how some bands just don’t have the right sound they want to listen to._
> 
> _Deaky likes using all these little gadgets to get Brian’s hair just right."_

The bell jangles as Brian opens the door to the hair salon. The warm air, the familiar smell of pleasantly scented hair products, and the soft classic rock playing in the background wash over him. Normally, those two things alone would be enough to make his shoulders relax, as if he could check the everyday worries of his life at the door. But today, it only reminds him of how much he detests those stubborn, useless, ugly curls that insist on growing out of his head. He had to cancel his last two appointments, and now his hair has grown into something absolutely monstrous. 

Looks like it’s Roger’s turn to deal with the mess this time. “Hey there,” he greets him from behind the counter, flashing him an easy smile as if he had just been waiting for this all day. “Just a sec!”

“Hey,” Brian grunts as he hangs up his jacket. He nods at Deaky and Freddie, who are busy with their own clients, but smile and wave at him in greeting. He feels a bit self-conscious as he takes off his beanie and reveals his messy bun and the shaggy strands that have escaped it. Roger’s smile doesn’t falter as he takes in his appearance. His bleached hair is the very definition of artfully tousled, looking soft and fluffy, like a halo around his face. Brian feels something the cat dragged in from the gutter next to him. “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess,” he mumbles while Roger scribbles something in a huge ledger. 

“Ah, don’t worry,” Roger replies. “I’ve got you.” He walks around the counter to escort Brian to his usual chair in a quiet corner of the salon. “We’ll just start with a wash and a nice scalp massage to tease out the tangles, and then…”

“Actually,” Brian says as Roger fixes his styling cape. “I’ve been thinking it’s all getting a bit much.”

“Hmm, it’s certainly grown,” Roger notes as he loosens Brian’s bun, sending a pleasant tingle down his spine. 

“No, I mean… I’m just tired of all the hassle. Can you just cut it all off, please?”

“Cut it all off?” It’s not quite a shriek, but it’s loud enough that all other conversation stops immediately. 

Brian’s hazel eyes meet blue ones, wide with horror, in the mirror. “Y-yes,” he says, a bit taken aback by the strength of the reaction. “You know, short at the sides, a bit longer on top and then I’ll just comb it down with…”

“What’s all this nonsense,” a new voice demands. Freddie has appeared next to Roger, scissors still in hand and downright glaring at Brian.

He shrinks a little in his chair. “I just thought that it might be time for something a bit easier to take care of? More modern?” He’s not sure why his voice has taken on such a pleading tone. It’s his hair after all. And he’s paying for the cut. 

“Modern?” Roger asks, scrunching up his face as if it were something filthy. Roger, who never wears the same outfit twice and could double as a mannequin in a hip Soho boutique.

“Erm, yes,” Brian repeats, feeling vaguely guilty. 

Just then, the third shop owner, Deaky, comes to stand behind him. He doesn’t say anything, but with his crossed arms and raised eyebrows he’s the very embodiment of “I’m not mad, just disappointed.”

“Well,” Roger sniffs after an uncomfortable hour or two have passed (or at least that’s what it feels like). “I guess I can do _modern_.” He lets a strand of Brian’s hair curl around his finger, and if Brian didn’t know better, he’d think that those are tears that are making his eyes look all shiny. 

Which is silly. Hairdressers don’t get teary eyed over their client’s hair. Especially a client they take turns on, because his hair is such a pain to deal with. Or that’s what he always assumed. Not that they ever made him feel that way - on the contrary, they always take all the extra time and care he needs. But he always thought that was just a testament to their professionalism. 

But then Deaky puts a comforting hand on Roger’s back while he glares daggers at Brian, as if he had made his friend sad on purpose, and Freddie breathes the saddest little sigh as he pats Brian’s hair goodbye.

“Or I might just have the usual,” Brian says meekly. 

Immediately, all three faces brighten up. 

“Excellent choice, darling” Freddie proclaims. He flashes Brian a brilliant smile, then presses a kiss to Roger’s and Deaky’s cheeks before he turns and heads back to his client. 

Roger’s shoulders sag with relief, and he huffs out a little laugh, but the biggest transformation is with Deaky, who’s smiling so widely that Brian can see the gap between his front teeth. 

Brian clears his throat and settles back in the chair while Roger prepares his work station and exchanges some whispered words with Deaky. 

Perhaps not _just_ professionalism then.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Toinette, who commented that the only fault with Chapter 1 is that it's so short 😄 
> 
> Thanks to @plainxte for keeping this mess readable, and everyone who read/kudoed/commented on the first chapter 💖

Brian gave up his lifelong fight against the curls when he started university. 

He likes to think of it as acceptance, but has to admit to himself that the sudden loss of access to his mum’s straightening iron after he moved into his own space played an annoyingly large part in the decision. 

Still, any physics department isn’t lacking in odd hairstyles, and when his friends started calling him Brimi, he came to wear his unruly mop of curls as a badge of honour. The next-door barber didn’t quite know what to do with it, but Brian was happy as long as he kept it from going totally out of control. And when his then girlfriend introduced him to a piece of cutting-edge technology called the scrunchie, he thought he had finally figured it out. The only major nuisance that remained was that he had to keep brushing it regularly to keep it from matting - and of course he always forgot, or put it off until it became a painful hassle. But he could have made his peace with that. 

Until his twenty-second birthday, when Chrissie got him a gift certificate for a fancy salon in Kensington. The glossy cardboard paper alone felt like it cost more than his usual ten-minute cut. He completely forgot about it of course, until the day his relationship ended in tatters and he had to move into a bedsit on his own. Then it fell into his hands again, and he decided to heed the advice of the American romcoms he now wouldn’t be forced to watch ever again, and book himself a _treatment_ , as the poncy git who answered the phone called it. 

The poncy git was called Freddie and turned out to be one of the nicest people Brian had ever met in his life. He fussed over him to no end, offering him drinks and snacks and a myriad of baffling hair treatments, but also seemed genuinely interested in hearing about his PhD work and his music. At first Brian thought he was just pretending, all part of customer service (not that he would blame him), and waited for the vacant expression to appear in his eyes - the usual signal that his conversation partner was silently drifting off to more interesting places. 

Only it didn’t. Freddie kept listening as he worked on Brian’s hair, asking a clever question now and then, while Brian felt guiltier with every passing minute for having written him off so fast just because he wore make-up and said ‘darling’ a lot. 

And when Brian walked out, three hours and a complete head and neck massage later, his hair felt so soft he couldn’t stop touching it, and the cut fitted him so effortlessly well that he turned to admire it in every shop window he passed, like a total prat. 

He tried his usual barber once more, but found that he now hated everything about it, from the process to the results, and so, with a weary look at his bank balance, he went back to _Silhouetto_. Although he chose the cheapest treatment available, the experience was not much different from the fancy package he had the last time. 

The only major difference was that this time, he got his hair cut by a man called Deaky, who was the polar opposite of Freddie in appearance - blue jeans and a simple grey henley, long brown hair tied back in a sensible ponytail. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in a graduate engineering class. He was utterly focussed as he worked, and while he was much quieter than Freddie, he was happy to explain the reasoning behind his selection of hair products (some of which he mixed himself). He also gave Brian samples to try at home. The results were marvellous, but in the end, he was still just a grad student and amateur musician, struggling to afford a Central London rent, so his hair would only enjoy that luxury on the quarterly appointments he treated himself to (helped by the fact that the salon offered a very generous discount for regulars, that Brian couldn’t find on their website, but perhaps that was just because it didn’t fit their posh brand). 

At least, the appointments were supposed to be quarterly. But now he hasn’t been here in almost nine months, due to an insane schedule, a bout of the flu, and a spontaneous date that made him cancel the last appointment (which was a stupid thing to do, because the date went absolutely nowhere, and made him feel so miserable and lonely that he ended up crying a bit while getting drunk and sitting up alone in his bed all night). 

Now that he’s finally here, sitting in the plush leather chair and waiting for the treatment to begin, he doesn’t envy Roger his task. He tried brushing his hair this morning, but gave up with a frustrated huff after a minute or two, and the fine spray of rain outside has made everything even more frizzy than usual. 

“Can I get you some tea before we start?” Roger asks while he lifts a strand of hair between his and inspects it critically. 

Brian shakes his head. “Thank you. Erm…” 

“Yeah?” Roger’s blue eyes meet his in the mirror. 

“Could we skip the lecture this time? I know there are a lot of split ends, and that I haven’t followed much, alright _most_ of your advice on how to take care of it, but…” He raises his hands and his eyebrows in a pleading look. His day had been a continuous string of frustrations, and the last thing he needs right now is to be reminded of yet another one of his many failures. 

“Wasn’t going to,” Roger says with a mellow smile. “You look like you could need a bit of break. Look a bit tired.”

Brian has heard that one a couple of times too often. “Is that your polite way of saying I look like crap?”

“Yeah,” Roger readily admits. “Though I’m not allowed to put it like that. It’s not conducive to a positive experience for the client,” he says in a mock imitation of Freddie’s posh lilt. “Here, let me just move you over to the wash basin.”

“Anything else you’re forbidden from saying,” Brian asks, holding on to his arm rests. Being wheeled around on the chair by Roger can be quite a ride, especially when he does the version with the car engine noises (which can’t have been endorsed by Freddie). But he goes relatively gently on him this time. 

Roger rolls his eyes. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it. I went through a whole training course before we opened up.”

Brian secretly thinks that Roger is still very blunt, never shy of calling him out for abusing his hair as a fidget spinner or complaining about Deaky’s music selection being complete shite. Perhaps he only tones it down when Freddie or other clients are within earshot. The alternative is that this is actually the edited version of Roger, in which case he understands Freddie’s insistence on a Miss Manners course. 

“Alright, lie back.” Roger gathers Brian’s hair at the top of his head and guides him down to the preheated lip of the wash basin. 

He used to hate that part, having a stranger roughly tug at his hair, using water that is either too cold or too hot and artificial-smelling shampoos that make his nose itch. Coming to _Silhouetto_ completely changed his attitude to it. They use better products that are subtly scented and actually help with detangling his hair, for one. And they never seem to be in a rush, but take their time with it. 

“Water alright,” Roger asks, letting a bit run over his temple. 

“Perhaps just a tad warmer. Yes, like that.” 

Roger makes sure his hair is thoroughly wet before he slides his fingers along Brian’s scalp, working in the shampoo in small circles. He doesn’t even bother with the lengths of his hair, but only makes sure the roots get thoroughly cleaned. Brian had asked him about that once, and Roger had explained that the suds were enough to rinse the rest of his hair. It’s a steady, soothing pressure as his fingers massage along his temples and the top of his neck. Brian can feel the headache that had been sitting behind his eyes for most of the day fade away. 

Usually, Roger would be chattering away by now, quizzing Brian on his music projects or telling him some outrageous story. But today he’s making good on his promise to go easy on him, and only hums along gently to the Red Hot Chili Peppers playing over the stereo.

Brian lets himself sink into it, content to deliver himself into those capable hands. God, he’d almost forgotten how good this feels. There’s a low chatter of voices in the background, and the soft tinkling of the doorbell, but it doesn’t disturb the sense of calm that comes over him. 

He should do this more often, he thinks to himself as the shampoo is rinsed out with warm water. It’s lovely, not having to worry about what to do next for an hour or so, because once the treatment has started, all decisions are in the hands of his coiffeur du jour. It’s almost like a meditation, grounding and connecting him to his body, which he tends to lose sight of so quickly. 

Squelchy sounds behind him mean that Roger is rubbing conditioner between his palms, but just when Brian expects him to start working it into his hair, footsteps approach and Roger pauses. 

“Add a dash of avocado oil,” Deaky murmurs. 

“Hmm. Are you sure? Won’t that be too heavy?”

“Trust me.” 

The tone of conviction in Deaky’s voice makes Brian smile. He’s the one who makes a science out choosing just the right product every time. And sure enough, there’s a tinkling of glass as Roger follows his colleague’s advice. 

They’re all excellent at this, but with slightly different approaches. If Deaky is the scientist, Freddie is the artist. And Roger… 

Brian can’t help the small sigh escaping him as Roger starts to work the conditioner into his hair. Roger is somewhere in between. The artisan, perhaps. Just as proud of his craft, but trusting in his hands more than his mind or his eyes. 

“What are you smiling about,” Roger asks. 

“Oh nothing.” Brian doesn’t want to explain the quaint wanderings of his thoughts right now. Especially not when it sounds like he’s accusing Roger of not using his brain. Which is not what he means at all. “Just that I should come more regularly.”

“You should.” Now that his hair is coated in goop, Roger starts patiently teasing out the tangles. It produces a soft, gentle tugging sensation that never fails to send tingles down Brian’s spine. He found it awkward at first, the intense pleasure he experienced during it, unpleasantly intimate for such a professional setting. Inappropriate. But Freddie had distracted him with his questions and his chatter, and before Brian knew it, he’d found himself relaxing into the feeling. 

He wonders idly if it’s like that for everyone, or if he just happens to be particularly touch-starved. 

Roger rakes his fingers through his lengths a couple of times, and Brian bites his lips to keep himself from groaning, it feels so bloody nice. He’ll set up his next appointment on his way out, he promises himself. And come hell or high water, he’s not going to cancel. 

“Alright, time to rinse.” Brian can tell that Roger is keeping his voice soft and low on purpose, and he’s grateful for it. Again, warm water trickles down his scalp, helped along by gentle strokes of Roger’s fingers. 

When he sits back up, hair wrapped in a warm towel, it’s like the stresses of the day have been washed away along with the shampoo. 

“How about some tea now?” Roger asks as he’s wheeled in front of the mirror again. 

Brian nods, and when he takes in his surroundings again, he realises that the sun has started to set outside. Freddie is behind the counter, seeing off their last client, and Deaky is chatting with Roger as he prepares the tea. 

A few minutes later, Roger offers him a dainty porcelain cup, and Brian sighs deeply as he breathes in the steam rising from it. “This is almost like a small holiday,” he jokes. 

“Thanks!” Roger grins. “It’s better than what my last client said.”

“And what was that?”

“That it’s like being back at his mum’s.” Roger angles himself a little so his pierced ears and fashionably ripped shirt are in view. “Not really the vibe I’m going for, know what I mean?”

“Indeed,” Brian murmurs as Roger unwraps the towel and loosens up the strands with his fingertips. 

Then Roger hesitates. “Listen, er. Would it be alright for you if Deaks took over the next bit?”

Brian gives him a surprised look. 

“I mean, I can do it too if you prefer,” Roger adds. 

“I…” Is that a trick question? The last thing he wants to do is piss off the man who’ll soon be holding a pair of scissors to his head. “Why?”

Roger shrugs. “He asked.” Then he leans in a little closer and whispers, “He secretly thinks he’s better at this part than me.”

Brian honestly can’t say he noticed much of a difference in outcome between the three of them.

Roger laughs at his confused look. “Yeah, I know. It’ll make him happy though.”

“Well, it’s not like I’d mind.”

“Great! Oi, Deaks!” 

Looks like Roger has forgotten all about keeping it down. 

Deaky sends him a shy smile as he comes closer, but then his face quickly settles in that expression of extreme focus he always gets when he’s about to pick up a pair of scissors. To Brian’s surprise, Roger doesn’t walk away, but throws himself in the next chair, swivelling left and right.

“What about you?” Brian asks. He assumed Roger would have some other kind of work to do. 

“Oh, I’m supervising,” Roger drawls, sticking out his tongue at Deaky, who doesn’t look like he thinks he needs supervision. “And providing the entertainment.” He whips out his phone, twirling it between his fingers a couple of times. 

“Put that away,” Deaky says. 

Roger pouts. “Just wanna get a little groove going.”

“I’m working.” Deaky picks up a pair of scissors, considers it for a moment, then puts it down again and selects another one. It looks completely identical. “So no meddling with the playlist.”

“Play Montserrat,” Freddie pipes up from across the room. 

“No,” two voices respond in unison. 

Freddie doesn’t give up so quickly. “Alexa, play Montserrat.”

“Freddie, Deaks gutted that poor Echo the moment you set it up.” He leans towards Brian. “Gruesome sight. I felt bad for it.”

“It’s evil,” Deaky says matter-of-factly and picks up a strand of Brian’s hair. 

“Difficult to agree on a choice of music then, is it?” Brian asks as Deaky applies the first cautious snips. 

Roger snorts. “Oh, don’t get me started. We have one common playlist, where we put only songs that neither of us vetoes. It’s... “ He rolls his eyes and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Embarrassingly mainstream. Those two veto any song that’s not at least of drinking age.”

“You’re just salty because not everyone shares your love for Kesha, darling,” Freddie says while he saunters over to the three of them, cup of tea in hand. “It’s a bit concerning, actually.”

“At least I don’t have the taste of an octogenarian,” Roger shoots back. 

“Ah-ah, no kink shaming under this roof.” Freddie wags his finger playfully and sits down on a stool on the other side of Brian, putting down his tea. Apparently, his hair cut has now turned into a three-person operation. 

“So I’ve been thinking about leaving these a tad longer than usual,” Deaky cuts in, slightly lifting the top layer of hair. “They have a slightly tighter curl than the ones below, and with the damp weather that will be more noticeable.”

“Oh yeah, good thinking,” Freddie says before Brian can respond. Not that he would have known what to say anyway, aside from agreeing with Deaky’s professional opinion.

Roger uses Freddie’s distraction to steal his tea, winking at Brian when he notices him watching. 

Freddie and Roger chatter away while Deaky carefully works on his hair, deliberating every single snip and throwing in the occasional comment. It’s obvious that they’re friends as well as colleagues, playfully teasing and laughing with each other. Brian feels a longing for this kind of connection deep in his chest. His colleagues are alright, and it’s not like he doesn’t have friends, but… There’s no denying that Chrissie had always been the one to organise much of his social outings, and it’s become a bit lonely since she left. 

“Oh darling, what happened to your hands?” Freddie asks when Brian puts his empty cup down on the table. 

Brian looks down at them, stretching out his fingers, the skin red and cracked around knuckles. “They get like this when it’s cold,” he shrugs. “I always forget to take my gloves along.” 

Freddie tuts, then gets up from his chair. “I’ve got just the thing,” he announces. He rummages around in a drawer and then produces a small jar with a flourish. Sitting back down next to Brian, he gestures at his hands. “May I?”

“I…” It’s not that he has a problem with getting his hands treated with some doubtlessly very expensive ointment. Or rather, it’s the ‘expensive’ part that might turn out to be problematic. “It’s not really included in the treatment, is it?”

Freddie looks completely baffled for a moment, before he chuckles and pats Brian’s arm. “Don’t you worry, darling, I’m not trying to rob you.” 

“Just a little free upgrade for our favourite regulars,” Roger throws in. 

“Favourite?” The word has slipped out before Brian can stop himself, and he can feel his ears getting a little warm. 

Roger throws him an amused look. “Do you think we just sit around chatting and drinking tea with all our clients?”

Brian feels like he’s flushing all over, and he can see in the mirror that he’s started to blush, embarrassingly enough. He just shrugs helplessly, because no, of course he didn’t, that’s a ludicrous idea. But he just never thought that he… “I thought I must be a bit of a nuisance,” he confesses. “With, you know, all that.” He gestures at his hair, while a chorus of indignant denials erupts. “And the way I always go on about my research and such.”

“Your hair is so lovely!” Freddie cries. 

“We used to fight over who gets to treat you,” Roger says. 

“You would book his appointments when only you were available,” Deaky mutters with a pointed glare at Roger. “Before we agreed on a roster.”

A roster? Brian doesn’t know whether to feel offended or flattered by this information. No, scrap that, flattered it is. 

“And it’s so lovely to listen to you,” Freddie says. “Don’t get me wrong, most of our clients are wonderful people. But we’re a bit pricey, so we mostly get city boys and girls, you know, lawyers and bankers and such. Which isn’t quite...”

“They’re boring as fuck,” Roger finishes with what must be a blatant violation of Freddie’s code of conduct. 

“Most people would say the same thing about infrared astronomy.”

Roger shakes his head. “Believe me, it’s a breath of fresh air. And you have a real knack for explaining things. I learned a thing or two.”

“And you have such a lovely voice,” Freddie sighs. 

Brian ducks his head, willing the burning heat in his cheeks to go away. “Guys, please.” The only possible explanation for all this praise heaped on him is that these are salesmen hamming it up in order to flatter a good customer. But it doesn’t make sense, because objectively speaking, he’s a terrible customer, always booking the cheapest option and rescheduling appointments. 

Also, if they actually mean it, that would explain a lot. 

“No, it’s true! So soothing.” Freddie points at his hands again. “Will you let me take care of that now?” he asks a bit impatiently. 

Overwhelmed by this onslaught of compliments, Brian holds out a hand. 

“You don’t have to,” John reminds him as he sprays something into his hair.

“Of course he doesn’t have to!” Freddie looks scandalised. 

“I’m just saying you two can be a bit much.”

Brian throws Deaky a grateful look. “It’s alright,” he says, and then turns to Freddie. “I mean, if you want to.”

“What do you want from me, a formal written request,” Freddie grumbles as he takes his hand between his own and starts to rub in the ointment. “Are these from guitar playing,” he asks, when his fingertips catch on Brian’s callouses. 

Brian nods, but before he can add an explanation, Freddie has pressed down on a spot near the base of his thumb that transforms his speech into a loud moan. “Oh God, sorry,” he stammers, trying not to melt into the chair in embarrassment.

Freddie just tuts. “Another side effect of the art, I assume,” he mutters, and launches into an all out massage, first on this hand, then - after swapping places with Roger - on the other. Meanwhile, Deaky has started to carefully style Brian’s hair with his fingers and a comb, which feels absolutely lovely, while Roger draws him out about his guitar. 

Dear god, Brian will have to order a round pizza for these guys one of these days. He hasn’t felt this warm and comfortable and sort of _glowy_ in a long time. 

“Alright, what do you think? Shush,” Deaky immediately adds when both Roger and Freddie open their mouths. “Brian first. It’s his cut.” 

Brian looks at himself in the mirror. His hair has air dried in the time it took to cut it, and the tangled, frizzy mess he came in with has transformed into lush, soft curls. He can’t help but touch it with his hand, ignoring the disgruntled look Roger sends him. “It’s perfect,” he says. “Thank you.”

“It’s not how I would have done it,” Freddie remarks. “But you do look wonderful. 

“Good job, Deaks,” Roger replies. “Not sure if it’s _modern_ enough for you, though?” He smirks at Brian, who feels emboldened enough to stick his tongue out at him. Roger chuckles at that. He stretches out his arms over his head, looking completely content as he watches Deaky dust off the stray hairs and take the cape off Brian. 

“Thank you,” Brian repeats as he gets up from his chair, making sure to look at all three of them in turn. “I…” He looks down at his wonderfully smooth hands. It’s never been easy for him to say these things out loud. “I really needed this, seems like.” 

“Oh, it’s our pleasure,” Freddie replies. He holds an arm out towards the reception area. “Take your time getting sorted, darling. We’ll be with you in a minute.”

While Freddie, Roger and Deaky chatter softly among each other, Brian wanders towards the wardrobe, shrugging into his jacket and wrapping the scarf around his neck, carefully lifting his hair first. The beanie goes into his bag - no need for that now. He realises with a bit of a start that twilight has fallen outside, and one look at his phone confirms it: he’s been here over two hours!

After a couple of minutes, all three of them come over to the reception. Roger swipes his card, and grins knowingly when Brian immediately asks for another appointment. “In about three months time? We can do the same time on the tenth, if you like.”

“That’s perfect,” Brian says, entering it into his phone and setting up an alarm, while Roger writes it down in their thick book. “You’re still organising everything the old-fashioned way then?”

Roger rolls his eyes. “This one refuses to do anything cloud-based.” He jerks his thumb over his right shoulder, in the direction of a smirking Deaky. “And this one claims not to get the hang of anything else.” Another thumb, this time aimed at Freddie. “And you haven’t even seen their handwriting.”

“As if you’re in any position to complain,” Freddie exclaims. “You would have made a proper doctor.”

Roger throws up his hands. “I didn’t even last a year at uni, will you please just let it go?” 

“Never,” Freddie grins and takes a jelly bean from the glass on the counter, popping it into his mouth. 

Brian bites down on his tongue to keep himself from asking about it. Roger obviously isn’t keen to talk about it, but suddenly Brian’s mind is flooded with questions. How did those three - so different in personality, yet so perfectly matched to run this salon - meet each other? When did they open up the shop? Is it Freddie’s, or do they own it jointly? And why did those three men, who clearly have so many creative and intellectual talents, pursue hair dressing in particular?

“Well, then,” he says, tamping down the urge to thank them again. That would be a bit pathetic. 

“Got any plans for tonight?” Roger asks. 

Take out, perhaps a non-alcoholic beer to wash it down, read a paper or two, hope he can go to sleep before two in the morning. “Nothing special,” he mutters. 

“We’re headed out for drinks later,” Roger continues. “It was Freddie’s birthday earlier this week, and we open late tomorrow.”

“Oh cheers,” Brian says, nodding at Freddie. “That sounds wonderful.” He tries not to sound envious as he takes up his bag. “Hope you have a great night.”

There’s a moment of pause, all three of them looking at him expectantly. Before Brian can wrap his head around the fact that this kind of sounded like an invitation (didn’t it?), Deaky speaks up. “He wants to know if you’d like to come with us.”

“ _You’re_ the one who told us not to steamroll over him,” Roger complains, his voice going a bit high and reedy. 

“There’s a difference between steamrolling and making yourself understood.”

“Are _you_ lecturing me on communication skills? Seriously Deaks?” Roger looks like he’s prepared to go on a rant, but Freddie’s hand on his shoulder calms him down quickly. 

“Just a glass of wine or two,” Freddie says. “We’d love to have you along.”

Brian has no idea what he’s done to merit this invitation. He has never found it easy to make friends. Now, somehow, there are three people, three lovely, generous, kind people, who appear determined to befriend _him_. It’s hard to fathom. He just hopes it’s not pity because they sensed how long it’s been since he had something like this. 

“Oh, I…” He makes himself swallow the polite refusal already lined up on his tongue. He can be a fool, a giant, bumbling fool at times, but he’s not going to let his insecurities make him throw this away. “That sounds great,” he says finally, allowing a tentative smile to appear on his lips. 

“Wonderful!” Freddie exclaims, patting Roger on the shoulder. “We’ll need to tidy up here a bit, but we could meet up again around nine?” At Brian’s nod, he writes down the address of a bar not far from there and hands it to Brian. 

Brian takes the note and stuffs it in his pocket. “Yeah, that’s… great! That works… great!” He realises that he is about to say the word ‘great’ about a dozen more times if he doesn’t get out of here soon, and also that his grin is probably turning a bit manic. Better bow out gracefully now and use the time to calm himself down. And put on a nicer shirt. “See you then!”

When he’s in the door, he can’t resist a last glance over his shoulder. All three are looking at each other with broad smiles on their faces, as if they can’t believe their luck. 

Well, he certainly knows that feeling. 

The jangle of the bell rings out after him as he steps out into the street, the night suddenly full of promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone interested in a Part II: 5k of Gratuitous (G-Rated) Hair Cutting Porn?


End file.
